1Nunnery was the cant term for a bordello. Its proprietor was called an “abbess.”—Editor’s note.
2Dorothea Jordan was one of the most accomplished comic actresses of the late Georgian period, a regular performer at Covent Garden and Drury Lane. For many years the mistress of William, Duke of Clarence (later William IV), she bore him ten children before their parting in 1811.—Editor’s note.
Chapter 9
Scenes Played in French Street
25 February 1807,
cont.
~
I MOUNTED THE STEPS TOWARDS MY ROOM IN SEARCH OF my. bonnet, a parcel clutched to my breast. Martha was in the act of descending, and the staircase being narrow, one of us must be forced to give way. I elected the office, and pressed myself flat against the wall.
“I have ordered of Mrs. Davies a good dinner,” she told me, “and begged that it might be early, on account of Mrs. Jordan. I do hope we may secure good seats! Do you think that your mother might be persuaded to make another of the party?”
“I do not think wild dogs could keep her from French Street. It is exactly the sort of amusement calculated to drive her from her bed.”
“She has been very low,” Martha mused, “but I cannot make out any symptoms of decline. Perhaps a change of season, coupled with a change of domicile, will offer amendment.”
“Was she very pitiful when you begged admittance this morning?
“I counted only three sighs and one dab at the eyes,” Martha replied, “but you know that talk of an early dinner must always raise her spirits.”
“True. Had I recollected the fact earlier, we all might have spent the winter months in tolerable good humour.”
I have known Martha Lloyd since I was fourteen. It was in 1789 that her mother, a clergyman’s widow, settled in Deane and rented from my father the neglected parsonage; and though the Lloyds very soon removed again, to Ibthorp, the bond of our friendship endured. It is true, as Mary says, that Martha is ten years my senior, and might be supposed to have found a better companion in a girl closer to her own age; but there has hardly been a time when Martha and I did not share a good joke, or chatter about our acquaintance, or dispose of our friends in marriages they should never have thought of for themselves. Martha is as much my sister as Cassandra could be—more, in some respects, because she so often shares my turn of mind. We two have lain awake far into the morning, after many a ball, abusing everyone within our acquaintance, and have never failed to move each other to laughter.
But if I cherish her for her ready understanding and convivial spirit, I must acknowledge that her true value lies far beyond these. Martha, at forty, has honed and measured her strength. She has watched her younger sisters marry and have the joy of children; she has presided over the deathbed of her mother, and seen her buried; moved alone and penniless into the world, to take up a home without the slightest assurance of its permanence; and never has she complained or expressed a wish to exchange her lot.
“Frank intends to walk into French Street, though not so far as the theatre,” I informed this paragon of female virtue. “Should you like to join us?”
“With pleasure. Too many hours confined in a carriage must cripple a woman of advanced years; I should benefit from the exercise.”
“We might return by way of Bugle Street,” I added thoughtfully, “and look in upon the house in Castle Square. I cannot convince myself of its being habitable without the constant reassurance of my own eyes.”
“Surely the renovations are finished! Or have the painters been too often pressed into our neighbour’s service?”
The Marchioness of Lansdowne—the neighbour whom Martha chuses to regard so familiarly—presides over the Gothic folly immediately adjacent to our house in Castle Square. She is everywhere acknowledged as a former courtesan, and as such, is permitted an eccentricity of behaviour that should be shocking in a female gently bred. She drives a diminutive team of eight ponies, each pair tinier than the next, and is much given to rouging her cheeks. Her husband the Marquis has taken a kindly interest in the Austen project of renovation—as naturally he must, being our landlord. The Marchioness’s favoured house-painter has been pressed upon us for the improvement of our rooms. It is a family joke that when not required about the Marquis’s walls, the painter must often be tending to the Marchioness’s face.
Martha peered at me narrowly. “Whatever are you clutching to your breast, Jane? A foundling in swaddling clothes, that you intend to lay at the Marchioness’s door?”
“Eggs,” I replied. “Mary would buy several dozen in the market yesterday, and now finds that they bring on bilious attacks. She begged that they be hidden from sight as soon as may be. And as Frank intends a visit to Wool House, I thought they might better be used in treating the sick.”
“Frank at Wool House? And after such a demonstration of temper?” Martha’s eyebrows rose. “That is a reversal. You know that I can never ignore an opportunity to observe your brother reformed and penitent. Naturally I shall come.”
I WAS BETTER PREPARED TODAY FOR THE STREAMING stone walls and the dreadful stench of illness. The surgeon Mr. Hill chanced to be standing by the oak doors as we entered; and the turn of his expression at the sight of me was painful to behold. It was too much like relief to be mistaken for his usual reserve, though it vanished as swiftly as it appeared. I knew, then, how much the surgeon felt the Frenchmen’s fate in his heart— how much it galled him to be able to do so little.
Frank bowed, and paid his respects to Mr. Hill; enquired of the surgeon’s career since they had last met in the Indies; then introduced Martha to Mr. Hill’s acquaintance. I lent half an ear to these pleasantries while my eyes surveyed the room.
Seven of the pallets, at least, were empty this morning. I did not enquire as to their occupants’ fate; I was reasonably assured that I knew it. One of the missing was the young seaman whose letter I had transcribed only yesterday: Jean-Philippe.
With a chill at the heart, I glanced swiftly around the darkened room in search of the one man we could not afford upon any account to lose. I failed to discover his face. He was not lying in the shadows, nor yet propped against the stone wall; nor was he among the card players grouped around the table. Surely he was not—
“I am astounded to see you here again, Miss Austen,” said Mr. Hill, “and deeply grateful.”
I collected myself and curtseyed to the surgeon. “I could not stay away, Mr. Hill, and I have brought with me a companion. Miss Lloyd has consented to assist us.”
“We have brought eggs,” Martha declared. “They should be coddled over a moderate fire and served upon toast—provided, of course, that your men are capable of keeping their victuals down?”
Mr. Hill straightened. “I am happy to report that several of them seem equal to the task of taking a little sustenance. And I may say that I am well-acquainted with the process of coddling an egg.”
“Then you are a better man than most,” Martha retorted, and moved off in the direction of the fire.
“Pray tell me, Mr. Hill,” I attempted. “The French surgeon—Monsieur LaForge. Is he …”
“—Attempting to shave by the light of that far window,” Mr. Hill replied.
I followed his gesture with a queer little catch in my throat and a sensation of relief. The corner in which Etienne LaForge sat was difficult to plumb with eyes adjusting to Wool House dimness; but I discerned his clean profile, the spill of dark hair over the broad brow, the delicate hands poised with the razor. He looked and seemed stronger at a distance of twenty-four hours. Not for him, the coarse black shroud and the common pit dusted with lime.
He had ceased his ablutions and was staring at me intently. I found that I blushed, and looked away. With my brother beside me, purposeful in his intent of securing LaForge’s witness, I felt almost a traitor to the Frenchman’s confidence.
“Captain Austen has been telling me of Captain Seagrave’s case,” Mr. Hill persisted. “Most extraordinary. I ha
d no notion we harboured such celebrated prisoners in this dreadful place. I did not even know that LaForge was a surgeon. I might have secured his assistance in treating the sick; but, however, he has been almost unable to stand upright before this.”
“He is improved, then?”
“I am happy to say it. I lost several men in the early hours of morning, Miss Austen.” He shook his head in weariness and regret. “It is always thus; a man will go out with the night’s ebb tide, as though he cannot wait for dawn.”
Frank was listening to our conversation without attempting to form a part of it. His eyes roamed over the assembled pallets, but his countenance evidenced neither shock nor distaste; the scene before us must resemble the usual squalor of the lower decks. He had often seen men in suffering before.
“I have given my consent to your brother,” said Mr. Hill, “for this small liberty of Monsieur LaForge’s. He shall accompany Captain Austen to Portsmouth on the morrow.”
“You are not his gaoler, surely?”
“No—but I remain his doctor,” returned the gentleman shrewdly. “He goes with Captain Austen on one condition: that I might form another of the party. I should not wish LaForge to suffer from exposure in the hoy.”
“You are very good,” I said. “But there remains one other person’s consent we must seek.”
“Admiral Bertie’s?”
“Etienne LaForge’s,” I replied.
THE BUSINESS WAS CONCLUDED WHILE MARTHA CODDLED two dozen eggs.
LaForge was brought forward, his white shirtsleeves rolled high and his jaw wiped clean with a reasonably fresh towel. He stood easily before my brother, regarding him with the faint expression of amusement I had detected the previous day. For support he chose an ornately-carved walking-stick, ebony with a silver handle—so precious a thing must surely be his own, carried out of the Manon. He leaned upon it with all the careless disregard of long use.
While the two gentlemen conversed, I undertook to assist Hill with his patients—it seemed the least I could do for the harassed surgeon. My brother’s interrogation did not require many minutes.
Frank bowed; the Frenchman nodded—and with a slight glance over his shoulder, returned to the place where he had been sitting. I thought his countenance somewhat sobered. But before I had occasion to consider the man and his moods, my brother was at my side.
“He does not deny his story, at least,” Frank said without preamble. “What he told you yesterday in the vestige of fever, he is very happy to report with a clearer head to a panel of British officers. He attempted to bargain, naturally—but I could promise him nothing. I told him merely that I would exert myself on his behalf, and so I shall.”
“What sort of price does one put upon the truth?” I asked curiously. “Exchange to France? A quantity of gold?”
“Neither. He merely begs to be allowed to remain in England, a free man. I suppose there are many who cannot love the Monster Buonaparte.”
“But it is agreed? He sails with you tomorrow?”
“Quite early.” Frank’s grey eyes moved over the face of the prisoner beside me; I had been attempting to feed the man an egg, but found him unequal to the task. “The trial is settled for eleven o’clock, you know, and I should like to be arrived in good time. I must write to Admiral Hastings aboard the Valiant, and request permission for LaForge to come aboard.”
“I should like to accompany you, Fly.”
“To the court-martial? Don’t be absurd. It is not the place for a lady,” he said stiffly.
“Not to the Valiant itself, but to Portsmouth.”
“Jane, you do not know what a dreadful thing it is to see a man hang. It is entirely possible that if things go badly—not at all in Seagrave’s way—that the sentence will be carried out immediately. It is the tradition in the Navy.”
“Then Louisa Seagrave will undoubtedly require a companion,” I rejoined with equanimity. “Think, Frank! A lady in such a state! With her little children all around her, and no support but a surly maidservant in a black eyepatch! It is not to be thought of. Certainly I shall go.”
Frank’s lips parted, but he failed to voice a word. An appeal to the feelings of a lady must always reign paramount in his mind, however strong his attention to naval niceties and forms.
I handed Mr. Hill the remnants of coddled egg. There was a spask of humour in the surgeon’s grave eyes as he took charge of spoon and bowl.
“This is become quite a pleasure party,” he observed. “A morning’s diversion on the Solent! Do not neglect a hearty breakfast, Miss Austen. It is the surest safeguard against seasickness.”
“I should never ignore the advice of a surgeon,” I said, and prepared to attend Martha to the French Street theatre.
THE PALE SUNLIGHT THAT HAD GREETED THE DAY WAS soon fled, and succeeded by the usual Southampton drizzle we had come to abhor. I feared the night would prove far too wet for my mother’s health, and that a diminution of our evening party must be the result. Nothing short of widespread revolution, however, should prevent me from seeing the play in French Street. I had found too little enjoyment this winter, and meant to have my share of amusement.
I have long been a devotee of good hardened real acting, and though I may win contempt for preferring a Comedy to a Tragedy, I own that Mrs. Jordan is exactly the sort of player to please my taste. She is bright and light and sparkling; ingenuous in her air, despite the increase in grandeur that has attended her notice from the Duke. She delivers her lines with so lively a humour, that one might almost believe the words to have sprung directly from her wit, rather than the pen of a Kotzebue or an Inchbald. I had once been disappointed in a glimpse of her at Covent Garden, while on a visit to my brother Henry; I could hardly credit my good fortune in finding the lady descended upon Southampton, and must assume that some imminent embarkation aboard a royal yacht had occasioned Mrs. Jordan’s removal hither.
Despite the delay occasioned by our visit at Wool House, Martha and I were in good time to procure seats for our entire party. The hearty dinner Martha had ordered was duly laid at an early hour; my mother descended to table for the second time in as many days—an unprecedented honour—and insisted that the rain was nothing she must regard. By seven o’clock we were all established cosily in a hack chaise, pulled up before the theatre doors in a long line of similar conveyances. The downpour was considerable, and Frank was so gallant as to offer to carry me across the wet paving-stones. I declined, and splashed my slippers regrettably in achieving the foyer.
Such a crush of local worthies! Such a display of fine silks and sateens, of feathered headpieces and naked shoulders! How one was frozen from the draughts that flooded through the doors, and yet toasted unbearably when too near the roaring fires! The danger of spilled claret from a neighbour’s glass, trailing like blood down a skirt of white lawn—the danger of an inflammation of the lungs, to so much goose-fleshed womanhood! I had elected to wear a sober gown of blue sarcenet with long sleeves, several years behind the fashion; what it lacked in daring exposure, it more than compensated in warmth. My hair was pulled back in a simple knot, and bound with ribbons of a similar colour; it was nothing very extraordinary in its arrangement. I felt positively dowdy; and suffered, of a sudden, from an access of shyness.
The sensation was increased when a broad-shouldered, chestnut-haired fellow jostled my arm in attempting to ease by me. He glanced at my face, muttered an apology, and swept on with only the barest civility of manner. I thought his countenance familiar. There was a mix of worldliness and contempt in his eyes that struck me like a blow. I had seen this man before.
“Frank! Frank—”
My brother turned from assisting his wife with her pelisse.
“That gentleman by the staircase, ascending to the boxes—with the woman in dark grey. We are acquainted with him, surely?”
The chestnut-haired man had a hand under the elbow of his fair companion. I had not noticed her previously, a testament to my confusion; she was ext
raordinarily lovely, with a haunting, fine-boned beauty. Her cheekbones were high; her nose aquiline; her deep-set eyes heavily lashed. A luxuriant mass of gold hair trembled elegandy above her nape; her ears were two pink shells. And though she was dressed in dark grey, with complete sobriety and disregard for ornament, the lines of her gown could not disguise the exceptional in her figure. It was a wonder that every male eye was not turned the lady’s way. Her companion bore her along like a prize he had seized.
“By Jove,” Frank murmured. That is Sir Francis Farnham—a member of the Navy Board. I wonder what he is doing in Southampton?”
“Seeing to his ships, one must assume.”
“He should far rather work his coded signal lines from a safe distance,” Frank retorted.
“You would refer to the Admiralty’s cunning flags, which communicate intelligence from Lpndon to Portsmouth?”
“Sir Francis never goes near the water if he may help it, and thus is a great advocate for telegraph—and every new form of jiggery-pokery the Admiralty may advise. It is said they contemplate a signal-line that will run the length of the Kingdom—God help them when the wind blows too strong!”1
“You seem quite familiar with the effects of Sir Francis’s administration,” I observed.
“I made the Baronet’s acquaintance some years ago in Kent, when I commanded the Sea Fencibles; I warrant he will not remember me now. He is grown so very great in Influence!”
“Ramsgate,” I said thoughtfully. That is where I have had a glimpse of him.”
“He does not observe,” Frank persisted, craning his neck; “he has already ascended. I shall seek him out during the interval, however. Sir Francis governs the Transport Board, and I should dearly like to consult with him on the matter of those Frenchmen in Wool House. The Transport Board holds authority, you know, over prisoners of war.”
Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House Page 11